Lost Arrowheads
by Czarna Pantera
Summary: A collection of short stories to Arrowverse. A mix of genres and you can expect to find practically anything here. Gap-fillers, AUs and some really weird stuff. New one: Task Force X, Carrie Cutter and one of her special "ritual".
1. Parachute That Didn't Want to Be Folded

_A collection of short stories to Arrowverse. I plan to update it whenever I come up with an idea that I don't necessarily want to realize as a longer story or simply don't have enough time to do so. It is a mix of genres and you can expect to find practically anything here. Gap-fillers, AUs and some really weird stuff._

 **Lost Arrowheads**

 _ **5x01**_ _gap-filler. Quentin's reaction to Oliver's arrowchute (loved that trick arrow)._

 _Many thanks to_ _ **supercode**_ _for beta. :)_

* * *

 **A Parachute That Didn't Want to Be Folded**

After the meeting in the City Hall with Thea Quentin decided to swing by the Arrowcave and check on Oliver. Since the Mayor (for Lance it was still bizarre to call him that) was not present in his office, it was the most likely place he could be found. He was actually curious to hear from him how the Green Arrow's cooperation with the cops he had vouched for turned out the previous night.

When he arrived to the vigilante's hideout, he discovered that not only did his remote control for opening the automatic door to the garage work, but also he still had his own parking place. That was a pleasant surprise. When he come into the open space of the base he immediately spotted Oliver sitting by one of the tables, his face bearing a quite sour expression. But what drew his attention the most was a huge pile of fabric lying before him in crumbled folds. Tangled up lines, covering it like some strange looking net, added to the chaos. For a while Lance was wondering if he is looking at some piece of an abstract art, when he noticed the green-and-black fletching of an arrow sticking out from under that whole bundle, barely visible. Everything clicked onto place.

"And I thought Benton was pulling my leg when he was telling me about this. You really have a _parachute_ arrow," commented Quentin, as he approached Oliver.

"Yes, I have," he grumbled in response.

"Landing didn't go well?" asked Lance, noticing a huge violet bruise on his forearm.

Oliver only briefly looked at it as if he hadn't even noticed it earlier.

"If it didn't go well, we wouldn't be talking right now," he remarked. "Church escaped though," he added grimly.

"You managed to save the hostages. It's all that matters."

Oliver said nothing, but Lance could read him better than anyone. He knew that deep down he had a sense of accomplishment and seemed to be more hopeful that he had been in weeks. Ever since Laurel... At the mere thought of the beloved daughter that he had lost Quentin felt as if a sharp knife pierced his heart.

He glanced at the parachute again, just to focus his attention on something... anything that could help him escape from the dark thoughts that were lingering at the back of his mind. He couldn't allow himself to be overcome with grief again. Not when he promised himself that he would be strong. For Laurel. Even if right now his life had little or no meaning at all. But she would want him to carry on, no matter what. She was a fighter, his little girl. He needed to be a fighter too.

"So, how _that_ work exactly?" he asked, pushing away the painful memories and trying to show some polite interest. His voice was a little hoarse, but he managed to lace it with a tinge of his usual dry humor. It wasn't that hard to do when a down-to-earth man like himself dealt with Oliver's trick arrows.

"Well, thanks to the fact that Cisco is a genius," Felicity cut in good-humoredly, before Oliver answered. Lance glanced toward her. He didn't notice her earlier, as she was half hidden behind huge computer screens, apparently busy with making some tweaks to the tracking software they have been using in the Arrowcave. "He invented this fabric. It's highly compressed—don't even ask me of what it's made of..."

"And how he managed to combine it with an arrow...?"

"That's something I would also want to know," remarked Felicity. "But for some reason Cisco was very secretive about that."

"So, it's for use only once?" Lance asked Oliver, who have been unusually silent when it came to the topic of the trick arrow. Quentin thought that it was a bit strange that he didn't participate in the conversation. What was more he had noticed that Oliver's eyes were riveted to the parachute as if it was some puzzle he wanted to crack. When he heard the question his expression for some reason become even sourer than before.

"I'll be back... later," he said suddenly, rising to his feet. "I need to... Check something in the garage. My motorbike... " His voice trailed off as he walked off quite hastily.

He never explained what exactly needed to be checked so urgently. Lance followed him with his eyes until he disappeared from view.

"What's wrong with him?" he asked suspiciously. "He's acting weird... I mean—weirder than usual..."

Felicity chuckled.

"It has been almost an hour since he tried to fold it up and get it back into that tiny arrowhead."

Lance glanced again at the parachute.

"Is that even physically possible?"

"Well, I think so—if you have the Flash's speed. And Oliver's pride just doesn't allow him to ask for help," she said half-jokingly.


	2. Loyal as a Dog

_A gap-filler between_ _ **5x04**_ _and_ _ **5x05**_ _._

 _I already like Wild Dog although it's difficult to say that the concept of this character is original. But I think that Rick Gonzalez is a great cast and puts some spirit into Wild Dog, what balances Generic Tropes he consists of. And he has an amazing chemistry with Stephen Amell. Also I just can't dislike character that references Robin Hood. Of course I'm sure that Rene won't survive this season (characters like that usually don't)._

 _Most likely AU after_ _ **5x05**_ _airs. Warnings: torture,_ _ _language_._

 _Many thanks to_ _ **supercode**_ _for beta!_

* * *

 **Loyal as a Dog**

Things don't look up for Rene Ramirez. At this very moment, his world is narrowed to the inside of some old abandoned warehouse and filled with pain inflicted by Church's men. They are faceless to him; the room is heavily shadowed in corners and he can barely see them, blinded by blood and sweat pouring into his eyes and bright lighting located somewhere over his head and tied up hands. Rene feels like a piece of meat, hanging from the hook in the butcher's shop. They don't show much sophistication as they torture him—they simply slowly and methodically beat him to death, surely enjoying their time and paying attention only to not finishing him too early. They can lash out at him that the vigilantes are interfering with their business. He is going to pay the price for all of them.

Only when he loses consciousness, he earns short moments of blissful unawareness. But those don't last long, as he is quickly woken up with another brutal punch, or a blow with a truncheon or a taser shot. And his suffering starts again.

Then a moment of comforting darkness lasts a bit longer. He wonders half-consciously if his body has given up and slowly started to shut off, because he doesn't feel pain any more. On some level he is aware about his surroundings. He registers movement, then stillness, a jingle of the chain he has been tied up with the only sound breaking the silence...

Rene draws a sharp breath and raises his head abruptly. He glances around as much as he can. Blood from the cut over his eye flows freely, interrupting his vision, but he realizes that for a short moment he has been left alone. He remembers briefly that just before he had passed out again, Church sent one of his men to call the rest for some meeting.

His breath is heavy and labored. His arms are numb, wrists abraded by the chain. He can barely feel them, but he considers it a "minor" discomfort compared to the ache in the rest of his body. He wonders bleakly how many fractured ribs he has. His tormentors were also quick to discover his not-that-old injury of the right knee—he hadn't completely mended after Green Arrow had shot him to teach a lesson. Now his leg is throbbing unmercifully, as they had used it as a special target to inflict him with more pain. He glances at his abandoned hockey goaltender mask, lying forgotten on the ground—a patch of white surrounded by darkness. Right now his bruised face, covered by fresh and dried blood from various cuts, must look like some grotesque one.

Damn.

It is a really fucking wrong way for a day to go. He hangs his head down. It seems an age—an eternity—since he has been dragged here, but in fact it must have been no more than a couple of hours. At the mere thought that there might be many more to come before they will finally finish him off, his blood turns to ice.

This is one of the possibilities he hasn't really been thinking of—that he will be taken prisoner and beaten to death. Green Arrow would probably say that thinking ahead is a concept entirely alien to him. Well, that wouldn't be far from truth.

He wonders if Queen is back in the city and aware of what has happened. If he plans to come for him. Robin Hood would never abandon any of his Merry Men, right? Then again, that old show he had been watching as a kid might be not the best reference. Especially because, he reminds himself, of the many times he had pissed him off by disobeying his orders, or by acting reckless and screwing up the whole operation in the process. Rene called him boss, but didn't respect him, and that was mutual. So maybe he will just cut him loose. Then he can tell others something like: "You see? Rene was foolish and reckless, and didn't listen to me. Think of what has happened to him as an example."

But deep down he latches to a spark of hope that he won't abandon him. Only that it might be too late.

The truth is vigilantes are not invincible, especially ordinary guys, like them. It seems that their life span is rather short ( _is roughly six months of doing this a long time or not?)._ They aren't meta-humans, only men. He thinks about Laurel Lance, murdered by Darhk. Come to think of it, quite a number of people working with Queen ended up dead or their life got screwed up. Lance was kicked out of the force and that Harper guy took the fall for him. Blondie had told Rene that he is still alive, but what sort of life that was, being a fugitive who has to hide for the rest of his life?

Still, much better than his current fucked up situation. If he could only free himself... He glances up, squinting his eyes in the strong light, and yanks the chain, testing it, but it holds strongly. A fresh surge of pain shoots through his wrists and arms. He grits his teeth and stops to struggle. He simply doesn't have enough strength left.

Green Arrow had said repeatedly that Wild Dog is not cut out for this vigilante stuff. That he is not able to cooperate with others. But in fact Rene _is_ a team player. He used to be a goalkeeper, both in hockey and in soccer, during his college years. And everyone knows that one has to be a bit crazy to become a goalkeeper. It is almost like a team within a team. Someone covering the back of others. At all costs.

And that was the kind of a sacrifice he had done today. He managed to cover up the retreat of his team. He knows it was damn stupid to rush into hand-to-hand combat with Church, but he had run out of ammo and had no time to reload. It was the only option. Better not to think what those assholes would do to Evelyn if she was the one they had caught. Then he wonders if Curtis made it out alive; that injury he had gotten looked pretty bad. His thoughts veer toward Rags next. He could probably take down all these fuckers by himself—pity that he is not in the vicinity...

A sound of approaching footsteps makes him wary. He knows that his tormentors are coming back to finish their job. A short moment later Church appears in his field of vision, glancing at him curiously as if he was surprised that he is still alive and sane. His men stop at a distance, forming a loose circle.

"How is it hanging?" Church asks jovially.

Rene glowers at him, wishing he could free himself from the chains and punch him in the face, just to wipe out that arrogant smile.

"You have been one very disobedient dog. What do you think your master will say once we deliver him what is left of you in a shoebox?"

Rene still says nothing. No matter what he does it won't spare him suffering, but he has no wish to engage in small talk with this son of a bitch.

"Listen, lad, you've really impressed me." Church puts his arm around his shoulders, in a seemingly friendly manner. The touch of his heavy hand makes Rene's flesh creep. At the same time he feels anger welling up in his chest—how he wishes he could make a stand...

"So, I have a proposition for you. Just tell me who Green Arrow is and I'll grant you a quick, merciful death." He has a gun in his other hand, and for sure it is not an empty threat—or promise.

 _So that is what this is all about?_ Rene reconsiders his options. When he had served in the army he had seen people broken by torture. He knows that he won't be able to resist much longer. That sooner or later they will manage to wrest that piece of information from him and kill anyway, so why bother... And who is Queen to him after all? Is it worth it to take that beating for his sake...?

But then suddenly, a distant yet vivid image appears in his mind, quite unexpected but in some way very accurate in reflecting his present situation. He saw a documentary once about African wildlife ( _it seemed that he had way too much spare time when he was unemployed a couple of years ago_ ). There was a wounded wild dog, surrounded by a committee of vultures. Its rear paw was injured and it couldn't escape. It was literally torn apart, piece by piece, by those birds while still being alive. And yet, it tried to defend itself even when the situation was hopeless. Bared its fangs and kept attacking back, even despite the fact that the vultures were too quick for him. It resisted till the bitter end...

Rene swallows hard—his throat is completely dry—and makes a decision, although his guts twist at the mere thought of what will come shortly after.

"Go... to... hell," he utters, his voice hoarse, but audible enough.

Upon hearing this answer Church's glance becomes stone-cold and cruel. He steps back and gazes at his men.

"Very well then. He's all yours, boys."


	3. An Unexpected Candidate

_There is never enough of Carriver. Got that idea a long time ago, but didn't have time to write it down until recently. Now the question is if Oliver should pay that another visit to Doctor Pressnall._

 _Many thanks to_ _ **Perosha**_ _for beta. :)_

* * *

 **An Unexpected Candidate**

When Oliver arrived at the scene he immediately sensed that something was not right. There was no sign of a robbery in progress. The back doors to the warehouse seemed to be firmly locked, the padlock and the chain on the gate in the net fence untouched. He went along it down the road, but still didn't notice anything suspicious. He stopped in a small parking lot, completely empty at this hour, and activated his communicator.

"Overwatch, are you sure this is the place?" he asked.

" _Yup. That's the address. Is something wrong?"_

"Nothing. Apart from the fact that it's dead silent here. No sign of any thugs."

 _"Maybe they went through the front?"_ suggested Felicity. _"You know, for a change."_

"I doubt it. Even now Oakwood Street is quite busy, someone would notice them. They must have been..."

„Hello, lover," he heard suddenly.

 _...crazy._

She appeared in his field of vision, walking lightly with the gracefulness of a wild leopard. He would recognize her anywhere. Red hair looking as if it were set aflame in the light of the street lamp, captivating gaze of blue eyes riveted to him. She wore her usual outfit—a short brown coat, green top and tight leather pants of matching color. She had a quiver full of arrows with red fletching on her back and held a recurve composite bow in her hand, similar to a Mongolian one.

If he wasn't so completely taken aback, he would be wondering how on earth Carrie Cutter managed to break free _again_.

She stopped some distance from him and smiled lightly, tilting her head.

"If you could see you face! You look as if you'd seen a ghost," she laughed.

 _"Oliver? Is that Cutter? Oh, my God, it's really her. That's all we needed!"_

"Not now," he hissed to the communicator, and Felicity immediately fell silent upon hearing the cold tone of his voice. She realized it was not the best time to distract him. "What are you doing here, Carrie?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Taking a stroll in the city. After all, it's such a beautiful evening. Sorry for the false alarm, by the way. It was the best way to get your attention. And this time I haven't killed anyone, lover. I'm a good girl now."

„Despite what you think... I'm not him. I'm not the Arrow," said Oliver firmly. He hoped, somewhat naively, that she hadn't managed to make the connection between his new and old persona, although her behavior suggested the exact opposite.

„Yeah, sure, sure," said Carrie dismissively and started to walk slowly toward him, making Oliver feel uneasy as always when he found himself in her presence. "I've done some research in my spare time. Had a lot of it, first in prison, then in St. Walker... And guess what I've discovered? That the Arrow and the Green Arrow are...in fact...one and the same person." Her face beamed and there was spark in her eyes Oliver considered to be particularly disturbing.

"You're mistaken," he tried again. "And stay back."

Carrie of course hadn't listened to him, and he had to give ground to keep some distance. He raised his bow, and its upper limb touched Cutter's left arm.

"Not one step further," he warned.

This time she didn't ignore his words. She looked down at the Oneida Kestler's limb with a mix of surprise and disgruntlement, as if the bow was responsible for keeping her apart from her "lover", but when she raised her gaze, her eyes had a strange expression that brought to mind hunger. Oliver felt a cold shiver running down his spine.

"I'm so glad that you're alive," she said softly. "I should have known earlier. I should have recognized that chin. And that ass. By the way, I like this suit much better than the sleeveless one, although I certainly wouldn't mind seeing those biceps again..."

"What. Do. You. Want?" repeated Oliver, feeling his patience wearing thin.

He didn't like the expression she wore on her face. There was some new determination and self-assurance he hadn't seen before.

"What do I want?" she repeated. "Peace on earth...red lipstick...a new set of arrows...you... " she teased him. Her smile became predatory and for a moment she reminded him of a vixen stalking a mouse.

"Get to the point, " he said through gritted teeth.

"I've heard that you're putting a new team of vigilantes together. I want to join too."

Oliver was unable to come up with a proper answer for a full twenty seconds.

„You're insane," he finally snapped back, the first riposte that came to his mind.

„I beg your pardon!" She shot him a very angry glance, putting her right hand on her hip and leaning sideways. "I underwent therapy and I'm fully cured. _Sane._ And I've even got papers for that. You see?" She reached for the inside pocket of her coat and produced a folded document. She handed it over to him, looking expectant.

Oliver hesitated before he took the piece of paper and scanned the text. It looked legitimate and had all the necessary stamps of approval as far as he could see. He glanced at the signature. Doctor Avery Pressnall. It seemed that he needed to have a serious talk with that shrink about whom she lets out of the hospital.

"Soooo? What's the decision?" she asked with a wide smile after she had taken back her precious document.

"I really...I mean...There's...Or rather there isn't..." he uttered.

She raised her eyebrows, looking at him as if she was amused. But Oliver didn't find the situation amusing at all. He really didn't know how to get out of this without enraging her and hurting her pride, which would cause her to try hurt him. He really wasn't in the mood to have another fight with Cupid. At least there were no train tracks in the vicinity, but every time he had to deal with her it ended with broken hearts and broken bones. And a lot of bruises.

"I have no more...no more posts open," he said desperately. "The team is full, sorry."

She shot him a look of mixed irritation and surprise, knitting her eyebrows.

"You must be kidding me! You had a place for a little inexperienced girl who is a Black Canary Wannabe, some amateur who is not able to throw a punch without tripping over his own feet, and for a lunatic in a hockey mask, who most likely will get himself killed on the very first mission, and you don't even consider _me_? I'm more skilled than them, I'm better prepared..."

"You're a criminal," said Oliver sternly.

"A reformed criminal," she corrected.

"You've killed four people."

"And you? How many you have killed? How many were killed because _of you_?" she retorted. "Including your pretty birdie..." she pointed out unmercifully.

"Don't talk about her," he growled. He didn't want to be reminded of that, for deep down he still felt responsible for Laurel's tragic fate.

There was a long moment of silence. A car passed somewhere close on a side road with a distant purr of the engine, obscured from view by a long line of low buildings beside the parking lot. Finally Carrie spoke again, saying quietly:

"You're mistaken. I've killed many more. When I was in the Suicide Squad. You didn't know about that, did you? Or rather, you didn't care after you'd sold me to Waller. As if I was a thing," she said bitterly. He felt a pang of guilt upon hearing those words. At that time he'd thought that it was a good idea to hand her over to Amanda. But much later, when Cupid got her freedom and started to kill again, this time truly going over the edge and slaughtering innocent people, he kept wondering if he wasn't partially to blame for that. Maybe instead to A.R.G.U.S. he should have taken her to St. Walker's, where she could get some real help. What if this time that shrink's therapy worked and Cupid was indeed... reformed?

"But I don't blame you for that," Carrie spoke again, cutting into his train of thoughts. "I only ask for a second chance. Please!" Before he managed to stop her, she grabbed his forearm. "I want to be better. I want to be a hero. Like you. For you. Please, _please_."

He averted his gaze, because looking into those pleading, bright blue eyes filled with tears was too much for him to bear.

"Carrie, I..."

"Yes, I've made mistakes. But others did too. And you have given them a chance. Are you afraid of my feeling for you? Don't worry, I won't do anything. Being close to you is enough." The grip on his arm tightened. "All I ask for is your approval," she added hastily.

"I...I need some time to think about this," he said finally, just to free himself from her.

Cupid smiled widely, tears of sorrow turning into tears of joy in the blink of an eye.

"Oh, really? I'm so very happy, lov..."

"Don't call me your lover," he demanded. "And get off me," he added with a hard edge in his voice.

Carrie fell silent immediately and moved back obediently, releasing his arm, as if he had frightened her. For a short moment he felt like an abusive jerk, seeing a hurt expression on her face. She was very pretty, he had to give her that, and he was never a man who could remain insensitive to a beautiful woman looking at him like that. Then again, she was so thirsty for his appreciation that it was really awkward. If her shrink considered her to be cured, she had to be insane herself. Or Carrie was off her meds again.

"Anyway, here is my new number," she quickly pushed a small piece of paper into his hand, as if she was afraid he will change his mind. It hadn't escaped his notice that her fingers touched his palm a little longer that was necessary. So much for "keeping feelings at bay".

He looked down at the scrap of paper. Fortunately it was not pink, and there was no nonsense like an imprint of a kiss or pictures of red hearts with an arrow going through them, which would have made him turn down her application immediately. Apart from the mobile number the note read: _52"55#25 30_.

"Wait, those digits on the bottom are..."

Carrie rolled her eyes, sighing.

"The parameters of my bow, of course."

He raised his eyes and looked her up and down, examining her slim figure and fragile-looking frame.

"You can draw back fifty five pounds?" he asked. Above roughly forty-four or forty-five pounds, the weight of the bow didn't make much difference when it came to the speed an arrow flew with. But it was not easy for a woman of Carrie's size to draw back that recurve, especially since its short limbs made it more difficult.

"You would be surprised what else I can do," she smiled seductively. "Anyway, take your time, absolutely no pressure," she added rashly, before he managed to say anything. "But see ya soon, hopefully. Bye, l...Uhm. Just, bye." She waved to him and turned to walk away, a small smile still dangling on her lips. Apparently she was very pleased with how the conversation went.

Oliver followed her with his eyes till she had disappeared from view in a narrow passage between two warehouses, and sighed. He had a difficult problem to solve here. He had no idea what was the lesser of two evils. Allowing her to cooperate with the team seemed to be the wrong option. But pushing her away again was asking to have her raise hell all over the city.

 _"Oliver, can I ask you something?"_ he heard Felicity speak in his comm, the tone of her voice laced with ice. He completely forgot that she had listened to that whole conversation.

"Yes?"

 _"You're not actually considering accepting this nutzo. Are you?"_

He didn't answer. Felicity interpreted the silence on his side accordingly.

 _"Oh, my God. You_ are _considering it. Are you completely out of your mind?"_ she asked with a utterly horrified tone.

"Well, you wanted me to form a new team. And here are the consequences..." he answered evasively. One thing was sure—Carrie was indeed more competent that all the members of his new team put together.

He hesitated and then put the slip of paper Cupid had given him into his pocket. It seemed he needed to pay another visit to a certain shrink...


	4. Quentin Learns About Black Siren

_A really short story, written spontaneously (and in a very different form than "normal" writing) after the news about Katie Cassidy returning as the series regular in season 6 of "Arrow" were announced. Of course my first though was "how poor Quentin is going to take the news that there is an alternate version of his daughter?".  
_

* * *

 **St. Walker's hospital, Doctor Pressnall's office**

 **Doctor Pressnall:** Hello, Quentin, how can I help you?

 **Quentin:** It's complicated, I'm not sure...

 **Doctor Pressnall:** Just tell me your story, and I'll do everything in my power to provide the best possible therapy program.

 **Quentin:** _(sighs)_ I've used to have two beautiful, smart daughters and a beloved wife. I was perfectly happy living my ordinary life, even despite being a cop in a city where we get shot for living. Then my younger daugther... died. But six years later it turned out that she didn't die for real... And she returned. As a masked vigilante, calling herself Canary. But then she died... for real. _(sobs)_ Then my elder daughter took on her mantle and carried on with this craziness... becoming the Black Canary. Some time later my younger daughter, Sara, was miraculously resurrected...

 **Doctor Pressnall:** Excuse me, _what_?

 **Quentin:** _(grimly)_ Brought back to life. With all do respect, Doctor, you're only a minor character, you don't know what this universe is fully capable of. Listen to the rest of the story. Shortly after Sara got back she hopped on a time travel ship and left. To save the timeline or some other crap. And then I lost Laurel. Forever. She was murdered by that shunhavbitch Damien Darhk. _(starts crying)_

 _(Doctor Pressnall is temporarily out of words)_

 **Quentin:** _(pulls himself together)_ And now I really don't know what to do... Laurel is back but it's not _my_ Laurel. She just _looks_ like her... But she's from another Earth. She calls herself Black Siren... Please, Doctor, is there any form of therapy that could help me? I've got an impression as if the universe truly hated me.

 **Doctor Pressnall:** Quentin... I'm afraid that there is no effective therapy for _organic writing [tm]_...


	5. Mirrors

_After watching 5x22 I couldn't stop myself from writing a short story with Quentin and Black Siren. Next chapter of **A Professional Observation** and the conclusion of **To Another Earth** will be next (once I wrap those two up)._

 _Many thanks to **Perosha** for beta. :)_

* * *

 **Mirrors**

He should have known that May can't be any good. It's just something with this city. Around this time of year, the usual crazy is replaced with extreme crazy, or super crazy, or just _fucking crazy_.

Quentin hangs his head and sighs. He rubs his forehead, what is not easy with handcuffed hands, causing the chain attached to them to jingle in the darkness. He already tried to get out of his restrains, but without any luck. He has only abraded his wrists. He is not a damn Houdini...or the Green Arrow. He knows he could do that trick with dislocating a thumb to get himself free. But Quentin is not tempted to try it right now.

Surrounded by the pitch-black darkness of the inside of a container, Quentin "amuses" himself with reminding himself of weird things that have happened to him in recent years in May. Helping the vigilante to disarm the earthquake device that was meant to destroy Glades...which cost him his detective badge. Helping the Arrow to stop an attack of an army of criminals on that Mirakuru drug... which not only gave him back his old badge, but also a promotion to captain. Two other Mays...he prefers to not remember them. He was in a bad place with Laurel two years ago...And a year ago...He had lost her.

But still, discovering an evil version of his beloved daughter takes the cake. It is something he _never_ saw coming. He still tries to wrap his mind around this revelation. Thea explained him that there are those alternative universes...other Earths...But it is something which is very hard to swallow for such a down-to-earth man as Lance. For one short moment, he believed that it was his daughter miraculously returned to him. Just like Sara, who had come back from the grave after all. And then it was taken away from him. And what was worse, he felt as if he had lost Laurel _again_.

It hurts... It hurts so much...Knowing that there is a living, breathing counterpart to his beloved daughter. That shares nothing with her except for her looks. Some evil meta-human, working with that psychopath, Chase...It is a new form of torture.

She is not Laurel, he keeps repeating to himself. _She is not his Laurel._ She is not his baby girl. But, God, she looks like her, her voice sounds like hers...

And yet, at the same time there is something...predatory in the way she moves. And her eyes...They told her history the most vividly. When she has let her guard down, he noticed that there was something more...vulnerable behind that stone-cold mask. And he couldn't help but wonder what had happened to this version of Laurel to turn her into such a twisted, villainous creature. Where was her father? Didn't he notice what was happening with his baby girl? Or maybe...maybe he was an even worse father than him, since he didn't stop his Laurel from becoming that...Black Siren.

But then again, there must be some history between her and that other Quentin. Otherwise she wouldn't seem to care for him...Maybe...maybe she had lost her father, just like he had lost Laurel. Or maybe it is just a part of game. His daughters are his weakness. And Chase knows that.

These thoughts run and run around in his mind, but he is not able to figure out exactly what Black Siren's agenda is. He doesn't want to delude himself into believing that there is something of Laurel in her after all. His Laurel truly wouldn't be so stupid as to work with someone like Prometheus.

He is worried about Thea—he is sure they separated them on purpose, and wonders if Oliver has figured out some rescue plan. But for that, he would have to knew where they are taking them...

Quentin has no idea how much time passes before Black Siren comes to collect him. He squints his eyes in the light when she opens the doors of the container, looking up at the dark silhouette in a long coat.

"Time for tonight's entertainment?" he asks cynically.

Black Siren smiles coldly as she seizes his arm.

"We are going on a small trip, Dad."

"Hope it's not aboard," he remarks. "My passport is not valid."

He hopes that she will reveal where they are going—even though he wouldn't have any practical use for this piece of information—but Black Siren says nothing. But he realizes that they are in some small, dark airport and there is a plane awaiting them on the runway.

And crap... Maybe currently it should be the least of his worries, but he can't help thinking that his passport is really expired...

* * *

He is not Dad. _He is not her Dad_ , she keeps telling herself. But he looks like he might look if he had reached his age. Laurel was only seventeen when she lost her father, in a sudden and cruel way. A stroke. She still remembers that day, that unusually warm, sunny Sunday. She had found him. They took him to the hospital, but it was too late. He never regained consciousness and died a few days later.

Being stranded on this other Earth drives her crazy. Everything is so similar to her home world, and yet so different. And the doppelgangers of people who were close to her are well and alive. Or maybe just alive. Because they seem to be as far from being well as possible. Oliver is the Green Arrow, obsessed over his mission as much as the Arrow of her Earth, as far as she could tell from their brief encounters. And "Dad"...this Quentin Lance...it doesn't seem as if he ever completely healed after the loss of his daughter—just seeing the mirror image of her made him lower his guard.

They are both broken. Just like her.

She helps Adrian Chase in exchange for her freedom. And she always keeps her word. But she also has her own agenda. Only by staying close to Prometheus can she make sure that nothing bad will happen to the Quentin Lance of this Earth. Maybe it is stupid and sentimental, and pathetic, but she couldn't hurt someone who looks like her father. And as for the rest...she will wait to see how events will unfold. She always keeps her word, that is true. But once she her debt is paid off, she won't feel as if he has any obligation to Chase...


	6. Pear

_Gap-filler for **1x01**. Oliver's reflections after his return. The island timeline doesn't exactly match the show, but corresponds with the AU version in __**A Professional Observation**_ _(island - Hong Kong - Russia - island again)._

 _Many thanks to_ _ **Perosha**_ _for beta. :)_

* * *

 **Pear**

Oliver closes the door to his bedroom and takes a deep breath. A family dinner turned out to be more of a challenge for him that he had expected. He is glad that it is over.

The room is plunged into comforting darkness and silence. It brings to mind the sense of security Yao Fei's cave provided him on the island during his last year. Here he doesn't have to pretend that everything is okay and force himself to participate in small talk, while his mind keeps drifting somewhere far away. Thoughts about his promise to his father, his mission and his other hooded vigilante persona have been running and running round in his mind ever since his rescue. He has been looking forward to emerging into the night with a bow in his hand to become an urban hunter, and at the same time is scared about the prospect. What if he fails?

But for the time being it is a little too early to put his plan into operation. First he needs to find his footing in _normal_ life. It has felt so bizarre to be back in civilization after over a year of living as a recluse. With every passing day the memories about his time in Hong Kong and Russia became as faded as those about his life in Starling before the _Queen's Gambit_ catastrophe. Finally he feels as if he had never left the island. His main objective was to survive till the next day. Only during cold, sleepless nights was he dreaming about his rescue, vaguely planning what he would do with his life after his return.

And now he is back. He is truly back.

He nearly broke into tears when he saw Mom at the doorstep of his hospital room, and he had been genuinely happy to meet his sister after such a long break. He recognized her even though she wasn't a child any more, but a young woman. Meeting Tommy and Raisa, who were exactly as he had remembered them, brought some warm feelings as well. But seeing Walter at his mother's side was kind of a shock. One of many changes that occurred during his five years' absence. Changes he had to get used to. The world didn't stop turning only because he was missing. Life went on _(five years is a lot)_ , even if his room stayed exactly as he had left it.

There are many little things that in some sense make him as lost as when he had first washed up on the island. The commotion, the noises of the city, numerous lights... Even people talking too much and way too loudly for his sharpened sense of hearing. All of this makes him nervous. Another problem is the food.

He looks down on a green pear he has taken from the fruit bowl Raisa brought into the dining room shortly before he left. He is hungry, but had hardly touched dinner. All the smells and tastes had been overwhelming, and all of this has turned out to be little too much for someone who had gotten adjusted to really unsophisticated meals.

Lian Yu was not a tropical paradise. It was wild and dangerous, and the life he lead there left no room for making mistakes. And there were not many edible plants on the island, let alone fruit. Some wild mangos and papaya, and fruits similar to citruses he couldn't even name. Coconuts were also abundant in the area. Yao Fei had shown him some other plants, but with his limited English he was not able to explain what they were, let alone gave their proper names. He said only "Good to eat. Not good" and that was all.

Fortunately for him, Oliver was a keen learner. The knowledge he picked up when he was with Yao Fei during those first couple of weeks helped him to survive later. When there was absolutely nothing more nourishing he found himself eating some roots, trying to convince himself that a carrot is also a root. At other times he raided birds' nests for eggs and caught small lizards. He had even eaten huge ants when there was nothing better.

But all of that wouldn't be sufficient to keep alive an adult man. He had to hunt. _To kill._ He had never forgetten that pheasant Yao Fei had brought him in a cage. Without uttering a word, he indicated for him to twist the bird's neck if he wanted to have something to eat. It was only the first of many other creatures whose death allowed him to survive.

Suddenly a memory of a bearded, longhaired man flashes through his mind. He wears a shabby vest and pants, faded from the sun, and has a green hood over his head. He is barefoot and holds a bow in his hand. He has spent a better part of the late afternoon tracking prey, some kind of a deer. He knows it's himself, but at the same time he feels as if he is observing the scene from the distance, just like watching a video recording.

To his surprise, one thing about his stay on Lian Yu was certain, and there was no point in denying it. He had hated it and loved every moment at the same time. For he had never felt more alive.

He pushes the memories about the island to some distant corner of his mind and hesitates for a long moment, turning over the pear in his hand. Ever since he returned, he has had the weird thought stuck at the back of his mind that it is all only a dream. That he isn't truly back, that he is only imagining it. Some hallucinations, similar to those he had when he was feverish and had nearly died.

Won't it disappear? Won't he wake up shortly before the dawn, curled on his makeshift bed in Yao Fei's cave, cold and hungry?

He takes a bite. The pear is sweet and juicy, exactly as he remembers.

A simple pleasure. And it makes him feel at home.


	7. Cupid's Ritual

_A little silly bit about Cupid. This idea appeared out of nowhere. Maybe because recently_ _I've heard Hurts's song_ _titled "Cupid" (100% Carriver). Anyway_ _I had to write it down to answer one of the greates mysteries of the universe._

 _Many thanks to **Perosha** for beta. :)_

* * *

 **Cupid's Ritual**

It was not the first time that Task Force X was summoned on very short notice. It was roughly 3 a.m. when a guard rapidly woke Carrie up from a very pleasant dream involving her and the Arrow in a rather intimate moment. She was told that she had five minutes to prepare. As usual, she was not informed where they were sending her this time—only instructed to take some warm clothes.

Before she realized it, the guard was gone. She knew that he would be waiting behind the door, and he would collect her exactly on time—not a second earlier, not a second later. Everything in A.R.G.U.S. worked according to a tight schedule. She quickly sprang out of the bed and splashed her face with some cold water to fully awaken. She almost broke the comb when she hastily brushed her hair to put it more or less in place. She quickly dressed, glad that she could wear civilian clothes. And she was ready one minute before it was time.

She grabbed her coat and scarf, and a small carry-on bag with a few necessities. She always kept it packed, lying next to the side of her bed. Before she got out, she threw a quick glance at the table, where a half-finished collage she had been working on in her spare time recently was lying, made out of photos cut out from newspapers and magazines. The theme was always the same—the Arrow. Several collages dedicated to her man already adorned the walls of her cell, making it look much more cheerful. What a pity that she wouldn't be able to finish it today! But at least a new mission meant a cancelled therapy session with Pressnall. She could use a break from meetings with her shrink, although she had to admit that her idea to create collages was quite good—it had a surprisingly calming effect on her. Who knows, maybe next time she will make one with plants, just like her psychotherapist asked her to. Pressnall hoped to raise her interest in different hobbies other than the Arrow, and with that in mind she had given her a huge pile of old issues of "Your Garden" magazine.

Her teammates were already waiting for her in the corridor, in the company of the guards. Bronze Tiger tried to stifle a yawn. Deadshot was hastily putting on his leather jacket.

"We are together on the mission, boys? Lovely," Carrie smiled to them.

"Only you can be so gleeful at this hour," said Floyd sarcastically.

"Don't be so glum," she patted him on the shoulder in a friendly manner. He only rolled his eyes.

After a couple of minutes, they got into the helicopter that took them to the airport. A.R.G.U.S was using a military facility, and at this hour it was completely empty, dark and lifeless, save for a couple of people from the ground personnel. As usual, Agent Lyla Michaels was the head of the operation. She was waiting for them on board the plane. Ten minutes later they were in the air.

The first thing Carrie did when they could unfasten their belts was check if the case with her bow and arrows was in place. It was up to A.R.G.U.S. personnel working with Task Force X to take care of their equipment and make sure it was brought on board the aircraft. Usually there was no problem with that, but once someone forgot about her gear, and she had to rely on using a gun (making an impression on Deadshot as a result).

"Cutter, can I have your full attention? We're waiting," said Agent Michaels.

Carrie realized that everyone was looking at her while she was examining her equipment, checking how many trick and ordinary arrows she had.

"Sure, sure, I'm all ears."

She went back to her seat. For some reason before a mission she was always in an excellent mood. The mere thought that she was doing something that the Arrow would want her to do made her feel warm inside. Even though she hadn't seen her lover in months.

Agent Michaels briefed them on their mission. They were going to Eastern Europe and their objective was to break into some high security factory and steal a prototype of a weapon they had been working on. After they had gone through all the details, they had several hours they could use in whatever manner they wanted.

Ben, after he learned that breakfast wouldn't be served within an hour, immediately decided to take a nap. He closed his eyes, trying to find the most comfortable position on the narrow seat. It was not easy for a man of his size and height. Floyd just looked out of the window. The weather was good, with hardly any clouds in the sky, and the numerous lights of urban areas they were flying over were clearly visible.

Carrie could never sleep during a flight. The noise of the working engines was too loud, especially in these special military aircraft. She also quickly got bored of the view. Suddenly she reminded herself about something very important she hadn't had time to do. She took out her carry-on bag from under the seat and unzipped it. She had a change of clothes and underwear there, a spool of fletching thread that could be used in a million different ways, and of course something that could literally save a life—a travel make-up kit. In exchange for good service for A.R.G.U.S., she could ask for certain favors. It was not much—a plant she could keep in her cell, permission to make her own arrows in the workshop, or...access to cosmetics.

She fished out the box from the bag, placed the kit on a little table in front of her seat, and by looking in the mirror placed on the top lid, she started to carefully apply her make-up. She had done it many times before—for obvious reasons she had no time for it when there was only a couple of minutes to prepare for mission. At first she had drawn a lot of attention from the guards, but over time they had got accustomed to "Cupid's make-up ritual." After all, she was known as "the Arrow's chick that's not right in the head." She had been given a pass on many things that were considered her little eccentricities.

She examined her reflection. A bit of eye shadow, some blush on the cheeks, and lipstick of that beautiful vivid shade of pink, and a girl immediately felt better.

She was aware that Floyd kept glancing at her. Carrie, however, pretended not to notice. She applied mascara, deliberately making it slow, secretly glad that she had managed to get his attention. On the other hand, she started to wonder what was the reason he stared at her for so long—had she smudged mascara over her upper eyelid or something?

"Why the hell are you doing that?" he asked suddenly.

"What?" she asked warily, meeting his gaze, holding a mascara wand in her right hand and the mascara in the other.

"This." He gestured toward her make-up kit. "What is the sense in that?"

"I do it for myself, obviously," she answered, dead serious. "Because _I_ _want to_. And _I like it_."

She could have sworn that Agent Michaels, as well as the guards from the Task Force X escort who had been listening to that conversation, slightly smiled.

* * *

 **A/N** _You surely know what I'm referencing here. ;)  
_


End file.
